


Just About to Fall

by Anonymous



Category: Hotel Artemis (2018)
Genre: Disco Thursday, M/M, MALE READER INSERT, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-08 21:35:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14702805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: There's a dearth of male reader-insert stories. (Alternately just imagine any male character of your choosing instead of yourself)This guy is a complete disaster... and that might just be the most attractive thing about him.





	Just About to Fall

It’s an awful disco night, which you hadn’t known when you came out. Apparently it’s an unpopular opinion to believe a gay nightclub doesn’t need theme nights, but there it is. 

 

It’s not the music, you don’t hate the music and you don’t mind that it’s all that’s playing tonight. Some of it you like, if not enough to get you out on the dance floor. But it’s not the dance floor you’re here for-- you’re just here waiting for someone to impress you, catch your eye, be worth spending the night with. That’s the problem, theme nights mean tacky costumes, and you’re  _ not _ going to bed with a man in a tacky costume. You just… need to go to bed with someone, sometime, and preferably soon. 

 

Then, you see  _ him _ , and…

 

Well, if you can say one thing for him, it’s not a  _ tacky _ costume. It might just be trying too hard for this scene-- the mustache is definitely over the top, but the open shirt looks like real silk from two stools over and the white suit could be designer. There’s nothing fake about the chain glinting in the deep vee of the shirt, either. It’s not ostentatious enough to be costume jewelry, whatever metal it is and whether it’s plated or pure-- it’s simply a piece of jewelry he owns, which is having a fortuitous night out. 

 

Then he sees you, and he smiles. You look away, but you look back. He may not be wearing a cheap costume but the mustache is an unfortunate commitment to disco night which may be permanent. It’s not November, that could be a permanent mustache, that could be a part of his ‘look’.

 

You’d like to feel it against your throat.

You’d like to feel it a few other places that do not bear thinking about.

 

“This is my night.” He scoots down to the stool beside yours once he has his drink, something pink and frozen with a neon green umbrella. “You looking to get lucky tonight?”

 

“If someone catches my eye.”

 

He laughs, his elbow on the bar verges on being in your personal space. “How about I buy you a drink? Good-looking guy like you should be taken care of, get his drinks for free.”

 

“What makes you think I haven’t been?” You arch an eyebrow, he backs off, but the interest on his face only increases.

 

“So I take it asking you for a dance wouldn’t fly, okay. You like to be impressed, no, that’s very cool. But if I catch your eye, you’d think about that drink?”

 

“That sounds fair.” You nod slowly. You like something about him, in spite of yourself, if he wants to work to convince you, that’s his prerogative. 

 

“Well. You just keep your eyes open.” He raises his drink to you, takes a swallow. His throat bobs, his lower lip looks wet and pink for a moment before his mouth disappears under that mustache-- or at least that’s the effect it has, it’s… distracting. His face might have a lot of good points, but the mustache is difficult to ignore. “When someone catches your eye out there, it could be me.”

 

“It could be.”

 

There’s the strains of a new song as the old one fades and he slides off the stool, breaking out in a grin. 

 

“Baby, they are playing my song.” He sets his drink next to you with a wink. “Since I haven’t made an impression yet, I guess I can trust you with this.”

 

He could trust you with it regardless-- you huff at the implication, even in jest. But he moves well, sliding through the crowd that moves between the dance floor and the bar, each step with the beat, and your eyes follow him even when you hadn’t really intended to.

 

It’s definitely his song-- he dances solo, and it looks  _ choreographed _ . You’re not the only one to notice, either. A couple of men attempt to join him only to be rebuffed by his total lack of interest. This is peacocking at its finest, then. When joining him fails, people instead carve out a space around him, giving him room to do his thing-- and when someone nearly blocks your view of the display, he waves them over and  _ winks _ at you. 

 

He is without a doubt an asshole, and his ability to dance isn’t going to make you want him. The hip rolls might draw the eye, yes, it all draws the eye, that’s the point of it, but nothing about his dance routine makes you think you’d be at all compatible. Then he backs up, shimmying to the beat on each step, motioning for the crowd to keep the path ahead clear-- again, very much with the music-- and after two quick steps forward, he’s launching himself into some kind of rock and roll slide, his knees hitting the ground  _ hard _ . 

 

The slide part is effective-- he hits his mark at the edge of the dance floor exactly. But he also looks like he’s in severe pain and he might be mouthing curses under his breath. 

 

Just like that, the spell is broken. People laugh awkwardly, his audience moves away or averts their eyes from the sudden loss of dignity.

 

You pick up his drink and take the few steps to the edge of the dance floor, extending a hand.

 

“Oh, hurts like a  _ son of a bitch _ …” He hisses, letting you pull him up and put the drink in his hand. “Yeah, that-- last time I did that I had kneepads, should have had kneepads.”

 

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh, definitely. You look good down there, aside from the swearing and the wincing. Maybe with those things.”

 

He dares a look up at you. “Yeah?”

 

You nod, one hand going to ‘straighten’ a lapel, really just to run a light touch down his chest. “Why don’t you buy me that drink?”

 

“This really is my night.”

 

“It really is.” You smile.

 

Not twenty minutes later, he’s on his knees again, this time in the back of an enormous luxury car with tinted windows, the driver sectioned off from the back, and this time he’s between your spread thighs, sucking you off like he was born to take a cock. Those knees have to hurt. But maybe he likes to hurt…

 

The condom glows in the dark and you can’t watch whenever he pulls up enough to see, can’t take your own cock seriously, but he’s worshipping you the way you hoped someone might when you went out tonight, so you let him pull that one out when you have a perfectly sensible condom in your pocket, and you let him beg you for a taste of that glowstick because it may be ridiculous, but he’d said it with a straight face, and he moans around you like that taste is a privilege, and that more than the blowjob itself is what you’d needed. You could get yourself off, physically, but you couldn’t give yourself this. Someone’s got to make you feel special, and he does.

 

He doesn’t give you his name and he doesn’t ask for yours. He doesn’t meet your eyes when you jokingly call him ‘Mister Loco in Acapulco’ but he does deep throat you, and honestly, which is better, in the back of a dark car with your cock out and wrapped in glowing latex?

 

He pulls off again, looks up at you, chin shining with saliva, lips swollen.

 

“Pull my hair. Fuck my mouth if you want.” He says, already hoarse. “Just fuck me up, baby, just get me real fucked up.”

 

The outline of his cock in those white trousers is… obvious. A good size. You’d be happy to return the favor… you’d be happy to do this again. You nod.

 

“You look like the type who needs it.” You say, licking your lips. His eyes darken further and you grin, threading your fingers into his hair and pulling, sharp, before guiding him back down onto your waiting cock. “Don’t worry, I’m going to give you everything you need…”

 

You take him hard after that, feeling each needy, greedy, satisfied moan as you do. He’s responsive, obedient… he takes what you give him and each moan is a little plea for more.

 

It could be a regular thing. If it was a regular thing, you could discuss test results and the necessity of condoms, because you’re not about to do something stupid with a man this committed to capturing the look of the sleaziest decade, but you’d love to come all over his face.

 

That option removed, you come deep in his throat, and the condom probably makes that easier on him, but not too easy, not so easy that he isn’t a beautiful mess when you do finally pull him off. 

 

His face is shining in the dim glow of the backseat’s track lighting, between the saliva all over his mouth and chin, and the tears rolling down his cheeks, but his expression is pure bliss, a loose grin as he massages his jaw and discovers with some surprise what a sloppy mess he’s made of himself. Or you’ve made of him. Even with the condom it was your cock he’s been choking on.

 

There’s no need to return the favor after all, which is a little bit of a disappointment you hope to rectify in the future-- had he been palming himself when you weren’t looking? He must have been. There’s a good-sized wet spot spread across those white trousers and he’s not hard anymore.

 

You whip out a black handkerchief and watch him look between it and your pocket and you, the loose grin growing warily brighter.

 

“We should do this again sometime.” You wipe his face clean, carefully folding it after. “I’d like a turn with you if we do.”

 

“You could do so much to me if we did this again.” He chuckles weakly. “You’ll find me just about any Disco Thursday, if you feel like a good time. If I don’t have work to think about, I’m here.”

 

You do have work to think about, but you’re not sorry you went out instead. It’s not the end of the world if you’re at less than your best on a Friday morning. You might just be less than your best every Friday morning.


End file.
